To Marc Crawford <br />from whom the commission <br />Whose broken window is a cry of art <br />(success, that winks aware <br />as elegance, as a treasonable faith) <br />is raw: is sonic: is old-eyed première. <br />Our beautiful flaw and terrible ornament. <br />Our barbarous and metal little man. <br /> <br />“I shall create! If not a note, a hole. <br />If not an overture, a desecration.” <br /> <br />Full of pepper and light <br />and Salt and night and cargoes. <br /> <br />“Don’t go down the plank <br />if you see there’s no extension. <br />Each to his grief, each to <br />his loneliness and fidgety revenge. <br />Nobody knew where I was and now I am no longer there.” <br /> <br />The only sanity is a cup of tea. <br />The music is in minors. <br /> <br />Each one other <br />is having different weather. <br /> <br />“It was you, it was you who threw away my name! <br />And this is everything I have for me.” <br /> <br />Who has not Congress, lobster, love, luau, <br />the Regency Room, the Statue of Liberty, <br />runs. A sloppy amalgamation. <br />A mistake. <br />A cliff. <br />A hymn, a snare, and an exceeding sun.<br /><br />Gwendolyn Brooks<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/boy-breaking-glass/
